


The Dumbing Down of Love

by cowboykillers



Category: Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-08-01
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:27:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboykillers/pseuds/cowboykillers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't as though Steve ever sat back and thought, "I'm definitely not gay." It's just that he never thought about it at all.</p><p>Thankfully, there's the internet, and the amount of Captain America x Iron Man pornography is borderline obscene. (And remarkably well-drawn and written.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please bear with me here. I love the idea of Steve being the one to pursue Tony romantically, and the image of Steve wading through the internet and discovering his own fandom is more hilarious to me than it should be. I promise this isn't actually a crack fic. It just, uh, sounds a lot like one.
> 
> This is also a ridiculous blend of movies and comics and headcanon, and I'm sorry I'm not sorry, but I like bits and pieces of all of them and fanfiction is the only place I can smoosh them all together.
> 
> Also, the title has been jacked from Frou Frou. (Which is also permanently on my SteveTony playlist.)

When he’d been very young, it had been a constant source of frustration to his mother that Steve could absolutely and completely overlook the obvious once he’d made up his mind about something. It wasn’t necessarily that he was stubborn, though he was; even when he’d weighed ninety pounds soaking wet he’d still be the first guy to dig in his heels about what he believed in, and good luck to anybody who tried to change his mind. It was just that he didn’t like to waste time, so if he thought he knew what was right or appropriate or useful he’d just stick to it. There was no sense in fixing something that wasn’t broken, after all, and when his methods yielded good results he kept on using them.  
  
Of course, he knew how to adapt. He’d had to learn the hard way, because if you didn’t learn to get out of your own head and see the forest for the trees on the front lines you were probably going to get yourself killed. Worse, if you were in Steve’s position, you’d get the people who were depending on you killed. He couldn’t take credit for that entirely, though, because while he’d always been smart and resourceful and quick on his feet, the Super-Soldier Serum had gone a long way toward making him, well, brilliant.  
  
Not that he was a genius like Tony or Bruce, but there was no sense in denying the fact that his intellect had been sharpened and honed just as surely as his physique had. His intelligence was all strategic, though, as it should be considering what he’d been intended for. It wasn’t arrogance to say that he could be parachuted into the middle of a battle and he’d be able to take a look around, take stock of the situation, and formulate the best battle strategy for the situation at hand. Pre-Serum he couldn’t have done that, of course, but now that was how his mind worked, for better or worse. More than that, because every battle situation was unique and the variables were constantly changing, he’d learned how to think on his feet and roll with the punches no matter who was throwing them.  
  
One battle’s strategy could change ten times over its course, and that was fine, because Steve’s mind never stopped working. Without even thinking about it, he was constantly turning the strategy over in his head, pulling it apart and putting pieces back together, factoring in who was where and what their condition was, adjusting for new enemies and differing terrain, making calls and still holding his own at the same time. What would have been impossible for Sarah’s mulish little boy was constantly processing in the background for Captain America, and while that didn’t make him a genius by any stretch of the imagination, it made him an effective leader and it forced him to broaden his mind and his way of thinking.  
  
He’d always been the sort of man who took things in stride, though. As the smallest guy on the block, he’d always had one of two options: he could duck his head and mosey along without bothering anybody, or he could ball up his fists and stand his ground until somebody knocked him off it. Most guys would only need to be licked a handful of times before they decided it wasn’t worth the trouble, but Steve had never really been like most guys. Bucky’d told him more than once that he was six feet seven inches packed into a bread box, which had been true enough but had still irritated him, but then Bucky was the only genuine friend Steve had ever really had.  
  
See, he’d had this habit of mouthing off to anybody and everybody who acted like a fat-head, and Bucky had been the only fat-head who’d taken it well and liked Steve in spite of himself. Bucky had also been the first guy to not knock Steve into the pavement for calling him on his bad behavior, and they’d been so mutually impressed with one another that there’d been no other option but to become best friends. Maybe they’d never quite perfectly understood each other, but Bucky had been the only one to just roll his eyes and rib Steve good-naturedly about all the ass whoopings he got, and Steve had been the only one who treated Bucky like what was between his ears was as important as what was between his legs, so they’d learned to look past the parts of one another they didn’t understand.  
  
Bucky never could quite wrap his head around the fact that Steve never, ever walked away from a fight, though. Because the thing was, Steve didn’t actually have a short temper. He was a calm, steady, reliable sort of guy, and even when he was being hauled out into an alley by his collar, he still kept his cool. He threw his punches, he took more, and he kept on getting to his feet with a stubborn set to his (usually bruised) jaw and his (aching) hands curled tight into fists, but he never really flipped his lid.  
  
He got angry. Of course he got angry, but there was a difference between the slow-burning simmer of his temper, the hard ball in the base of his gut that pinched and ate away at his insides, and the heat and explosion that most people thought of when they thought of anger. Both could be equally potent, but you got a lot more done with the first one, and Steve had always been all about getting the job done with the least amount of fuss possible.  
  
It was part of what made him such a good leader. He got things done, and when it came to tactics and strategy, he kept his head as far out of it as he could. He trusted his team to do what they needed to do, and he watched their backs, just like they watched each other’s backs. He was more than confident in his ability to think on the spot, flexibly, on the battlefield.  
  
In his personal life, though, he was still much the same as he had ever been, and he hadn’t even realized that until he’d been slapped in the face with it.  
  
Of course, there wasn’t anything inherently wrong with who Steve was as a person. His personality and values had been the reason why he’d been chosen for Operation Rebirth, because you could make anyone’s body perfect and their mind brilliant but there wasn’t a serum in the world that would make someone a good person. Not one that he’d heard of, anyhow, and he’d been around the block a time or two.  
  
Or, you know, two hundred. (Being an Avenger was busy business.)  
  
So the fact was, Steve focused on being adaptable and open the possibilities on the battlefield, because it was literally a matter of life and death. He kept an open mind and tried to work with personalities rather than around them on his team, because otherwise there was no way he would ever be able to juggle the massive personalities and egos that came along with heroism. But when it came to his personal life? To Steve Rogers, all-American man who still someday wanted to go back to school for art maybe and was attracted to strong women and didn’t take anybody’s bullshit? Well, there hadn’t ever really been a reason to reconsider any of those things. He wasn’t hurting anybody, and he was living as fulfilled and happy a life as he could manage, so it went back to one of his original rules: don’t fix something that’s not broken.  
  
Sometimes, though, it wasn’t so much a case of fixing something as it was just not noticing when something was changing. (Steve had always been surprisingly slow on the uptake when it came to personal revelations, which was a constant source of frustration to him. Tactics, strategy, managing volatile groups of people? He was apparently great at it. Interpersonal relationships that became more personal than professional? Mayday. Back-up requested. Scratch that, abort mission, regroup, new strategy required.)  
  
Back in his day, it would have taken Bucky pulling him aside, drilling a finger into his ribs and gleefully getting him up to speed on whatever he’d missed. He would’ve acted like he minded, but when it came to dames there was no doubt that Bucky knew far more than he did, and he’d been grateful for any insights into the female mind he could get. And Bucky’s advice had come in handy, even if it’d ended up useful about seventy years after it had been given, but who was really keeping track? The thing was, he didn’t have Bucky within easy talking distance anymore. There wasn’t really anyone who talked to him as Steve Rogers first and Captain America second, so he missed a lot of subtleties and just kept sailing along as he always had.  
  
Until, of course, he discovered the first fan page devoted to Captain America x Iron Man.  
  
A mug of cocoa halfway to his lips, he scrolled about halfway down the page before he stilled completely, one eyebrow steadily rising to his hairline, as he beheld a very passionately rendered CGI portrait of himself and Tony Stark, lips locked, hands all over each other in an apparently post-battle euphoric celebration.  
  
He blinked a couple of times, squinted, and cocked his head at it. Then he looked for a signature, because it was really well done, and out of (potentially morbid) curiosity, he kept scrolling down the page.  
  
Eventually, he just set his cocoa aside and cupped his chin in his hand, eyebrows near-permanently fused to his hairline as he read his and Tony’s “'ship manifesto.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love Sharon Carter and she will play a large role in this fic because she plays a large role in Steve's life. They won't be dating again, but she'll help Steve figure a lot of things out, probably accidentally.

By the end of the night, it was safe to say that Steve shipped Captain America and Iron Man.  
  
One page led to another, and before he knew it, he’d been dragged into an endless stream of photographs, video clips, interviews, and wild speculation all centered around himself and his teammate. Some of it was just plain ridiculous, which was probably to be expected because it was the internet, but the deeper he got the more he realized that these people sort of had something. There was probably a joke in there somewhere, something about cutting your losses and pulling out before you were brainwashed, but Steve had never really known when to quit.  
  
On the long laundry list of his flaws, that one was _probably_ the one that would get him killed eventually.  
  
The fact of the matter was, though, if he didn’t know himself and he didn’t know Tony, he’d look at all the evidence piled up and think that he had a little something for Iron Man, too. Maybe even a little something mutual, because when he tried to distance himself and give the candid shots and the interviews an unbiased, critical eye, he realized that they alternated between showing classic signs of lovesickness.  
  
Not exactly the kind of thing a fella wanted to have to come to terms with at four in the morning, but Steve had dealt with much, much worse.  
  
Partway through his adventures into the RPF slash fandom he’d pulled out an old legal pad and started taking notes for himself. It had seemed like the logical thing to do, since most of the forums he ended up on were full of regulars, and they tossed around the lingo like everybody understood what it meant. Thankfully, Steve was bright enough to figure out most things by context, and the ones he couldn’t, he went to Google for.  
  
He had a pretty good handle on things by the time his alarm went off, and he welcomed the break from his research. He had so much tumbling around in his head that the distraction of a nice, long, sweaty run would be perfect for him to let things settle while he decided what he wanted to do about it.  
  
He texted Sharon before he left his apartment, knowing that she’d be up and running just the same as she did every morning, and went through his stretches with a thoughtful look on his face. People were milling around outside, bundled up in scarves and jackets as they headed to their cars to go face the work day, and Steve indulged himself with a little people-watching while he warmed himself up. He really enjoyed having his own apartment, even though he knew that if he wanted, he could have a place at S.H.I.E.L.D. or even Stark Tower without any fuss or trouble. It would have been more practical, sure, and Steve was generally a fan of no fuss and easy access to what he needed, but there was something about having a place that no one else would pop in to tidy, paying his own bills, and having neighbors.  
  
Even if his neighbors weren’t aware he was actually Captain America, and one of them made a habit of getting drunk and forgetting which apartment was theirs, which usually led to them pounding on his door at obscene hours and getting annoyed when he got annoyed that he had to bundle them into their own room. Deep down in his heart, Steve knew that one day, _one day_ , that man would realize that he didn’t actually even live on Steve’s floor, but it was going to be a long time in coming.  
  
He liked that. Okay, well, he liked the _idea_ of it, and for as annoyed as he was whenever he had to direct his drunk neighbor back to his own apartment, he liked the fact that he lived somewhere that housed people who went drinking with their friends after a crappy day at work even though they couldn’t hold their liquor. Everybody he’d ever drank with at headquarters could still basically handle themselves while intoxicated, and most knew when to cut off their intake just in case they got called away on a mission at short notice.  
  
(That was the worst part about S.H.I.E.L.D., probably, and why Steve didn’t want to live there full-time. It just didn’t feel real. Here, in his little apartment in Brooklyn, the people around him had normal troubles and triumphs and weren’t afraid to give him a stern dressing down when he was the guy who was stumbling around the halls in the middle of the night and making noise. To be fair, that had only happened once and after a truly horrible mission, but Steve had been very apologetic, and he was on good terms with the lady who’d given him the stink eye the next morning.)  
  
He also liked having a regular running route, and the fact that there were now people who would bob their heads or wave when he went jogging past. Nobody stopped him to have a conversation, but that was fine because he just about never ran without his iPod, and the pseudo-friendships he had with the regular people he saw working the cafes as he made his way to the park were just one more little nudge in favor of keeping his apartment.  
  
He was Steve Rogers when he was in Brooklyn, mostly. And that was nice, maybe for the first time.  
  
Music pounded in his ears, loud and senseless and exactly how he liked it when he ran. Normally he used that to his advantage, forcing back thoughts about anything and everything until he reduced himself to a single, anonymous presence: a man out running. Everyone had their ways of coping, and maybe running wasn’t really coping, but he would damn well try anyway.  
  
So he ran until he was blinking away sweat, and by the time he’d slowed into his cool-down jog he could see Sharon sitting on a bench, her legs crossed at the ankles and propped up on its back, a bottle of water in each hand. He grinned at her, fondness rushing over him in a warm wave, and easily caught the plastic bottle she chucked at him.  
  
He was careful to pull his earbuds out and turn off his music before he took a long, desperate drink of water, emptying half the contents in one swig, and then unceremoniously dumped the rest of it over his head.  
  
From her perch, Sharon slowly raised an eyebrow. “If you’re trying to seduce me with the whole hot-and-sweaty-and-look-I-dumped-water-on-my-rippling-pecs act, I feel obligated to remind you that we’re on a break and that’s fighting damned dirty.”  
  
Steve laughed, shaking his head and settling himself on the bench next to his on-again-off-again girlfriend. The thing that he liked most about Sharon, if he had to pick just one thing, was the fact that you always knew where you stood with her. Maybe things didn’t always work out between them, and maybe he was taking a long time to circle that fact, but he enjoyed her. She was a good girlfriend and a better friend, and someone he could count on to give him honest advice.  
  
Didn’t mean he would always like her advice, but to Steve’s mind, that was the mark of someone who actually gave good advice. He didn’t trust the judgment of people who told him what he wanted to hear all the time because, well, he wasn’t an idiot.  
  
Settling himself on the bench next to her, he didn’t object when she propped her legs up on his thighs. “Hey, Sharon.”  
  
“Hey, Steve,” she countered, pursing her lips and giving him the once-over. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”  
  
“Nothing particularly,” he said, which wasn’t exactly a lie. He rolled one shoulder in a shrug, drawing the back of his hand across his forehead and smearing sweat into his bangs. “I’ve just been thinking.”  
  
They knew one another well enough to let the silence stretch for a couple moments, Sharon bouncing her feet in time to the music still playing in the one earbud she hadn’t plucked out. Steve rested a hand over her ankle, thumb moving in absent, thoughtful circles against the bone, and smiled a little.  
  
“You know what I like about you?” He asked, running his thumb along the ridge of her sock.  
  
Sharon’s lips quirked into a smile. “Sure, but these things bear repeating.”  
  
“I can trust you,” Steve said, shifting so that his palm grazed her bare calf. “With anything, really.”  
  
Sharon sat up a little, pulling her hair over her shoulder and combing the end of her ponytail with her fingers. “All right, now you have to tell me what’s going on.”  
  
She looked worried, and Steve felt guilty, so he gave her a friendly little pat. “Nothing,” he said again, and at the look on her face, he laughed and insisted, “Really, nothing. I sort of stumbled on something weird on the internet-”  
  
“Oh my god,” Sharon interrupted, holding out her hand, palm flat. “Please tell me it wasn’t that freaky Japanese porn. Because Steve, what we have is good when it’s good, but we are not at the stage where we can be bros and trade porno links.”  
  
“No, Sharon, geez.” He couldn’t help it; he laughed, helplessly. “I’d never talk to you about, well -- that.”  
  
Her eyes narrowed. “So you _have_ found the freaky Japanese porn.”  
  
His expression was perfectly bland as he repeated, “I would never talk to you about that.”  
  
“That’s a yes,” she muttered, crossing her arms under her chest.  
  
“Anyway,” he said, manfully keeping his tone as mild as his expression, “I just wanted to see you, that’s all. Sort of remind myself of something.”  
  
Sharon gave him a quizzical look, but moments later, her phone went off. She flipped it open even as she said, “Duty calls, you know how it is, Rogers,” and he didn’t move when she swung her legs off his lap and gave him a casual wave.  
  
He watched her go, hands on his knees and his eyes on the way her running jacket bunched up at the small of her back, and mentally sighed.  
  
They’d been sitting together, what, five minutes? And without her having to say much of anything at all, he’d confirmed that while Captain America seemed to have a thing for Iron Man, for all intents and purposes, Steve Rogers was still nursing a doomed crush on Sharon Carter.  
  
“Get your head in the game, Rogers,” he muttered, aiming himself back toward his apartment at a leisurely pace.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love Steve on a mission. Even if that mission is to right wrongs on the internet. Steve, honey, no, you're never going to... oh, well, oh well. Might as well let him try.

The first order of business, as far as Steve was concerned, was to make sure the PR people knew about the... shipping situation. Originally, he’d been scouring the internet to see how the Avengers’ public image was holding up, and he’d been mostly pleased with the results. They were getting better at reducing collateral damage, and public sentiment seemed to sway to their side more often than not, even if it was only by a small margin. He’d stumbled upon his and Tony’s, uh, interesting fan club entirely by accident, and while he figured that if he found it the PR people certainly had, it wouldn’t hurt to pop in and have a word or two about it.  
  
He hadn’t expected to be told, with faint amusement, that not only did they know about it, there were people on the payroll running some of the blogs. Steve left the impromptu meeting with his ears ringing a little, but otherwise unscathed. He gave himself a little while to mull that over, going a few rounds with a punching bag so that he could free up his mind to think, and decided that he was annoyed.  
  
Now, Steve had grown up in the thirties and forties. Despite what people seemed to think, there had been plenty of debauchery, hypocrisy, and deviance going on just about everywhere the eye could see, and just because Steve hadn’t indulged in it didn’t mean he was unaware of it. He’d known about the cathouses and the queer community and where to go if he’d wanted some dope, and times were hard, so it wasn’t like most people were above getting their thrills where they could. Maybe if he hadn’t had Bucky things would have been different, but Steve had always had Bucky, at least after he’d gotten to the age where it mattered. With somebody around to notice and care that he was a good person, it was easier to want to be that guy.  
  
Not that he thought people who did all those things were bad people. Maybe he had, once upon a time, but part of his crash course in the twenty-first century had included a whole lot of seminars. Seemed the modern day had a seminar for everything, and as uncomfortable as some of them had made him, he was proud of the progress America had made for the most part. Sometimes he wondered if all the individual liberties were making the people as a whole feel less like they were part of a _country_ , but that was something that could be worked on. As it stood, nowadays you could live your life in just about any way you wanted to -- and there would be backlash, of course, because no matter how much times changed the people didn’t, not really -- but there were laws in place to protect people. There was legislation being voted on all the time to add more protection, make things more fair and even.  
  
And Steve was proud. Civil rights had taken off in leaps and bounds, and he was glad that there was some legal protection for guys like the few he’d served with who weren’t really all that interested in dames. He was glad there was social acceptance, too, and not just for the so-called “inverts” of society; women could do so many more things than they could in his day without people batting an eye. He could remember sitting through the endless videos on the history he’d missed, eyes glazing over and mind wandering as he thought _Peggy had been born too soon_ or _I wish the boys had seen this._  
  
The fact was, Steve had been pretty progressive for his day, though he hadn’t realized it at the time. At the time, all he’d thought was that he didn’t like bullies, and it didn’t matter if people were being bullied for their size or their religion or their heritage or their skin color or who they liked to kiss or _whatever_ , he just didn’t like it. Maybe it’d had to do with being so small and such an easy target himself, but he’d known was it was like to be simultaneously disregarded and thrown under a glaring spotlight. He’d known, not to the same extent that other people had, but he’d known how it felt to be judged based on what everybody else thought, written off before he’d even had a chance to open his mouth and let his voice be heard, and he’d gotten tired of it fast. He’d gotten so sick of it, in fact, that he’d started noticing when it happened to other people, too, and he’d realized that he’d been brought up to do the same damn thing that people were doing to him, but he’d been told it was okay because they were weak broads or shinies or pansies.  
  
And he’d decided that wasn’t okay, and he’d just stopped caring about all the things that made people different because it was a waste of his time, and he’d started standing up for anybody and everybody. He put respect first and foremost, and it didn’t matter to him exactly what somebody was being picked on for because the fact of the matter was that they were being bullied, and they were human beings at the core of it. So if the modern world wanted to call that progressive, fine, though the fact that it could _still_ be called progressive in 2012 was more than a little bit disappointing.  
  
So it made him angry that a supposed relationship between Captain America and Iron Man was being used for publicity or public relations or whatever it was S.H.I.E.L.D. was trying to accomplish, because that was manipulating people. First of all, whether or not there was anything going on in private between the two of them, it ought to have been kept private. They were national icons, sure, but that didn’t mean anybody could take their personal lives and play around with them to keep public favor up in certain sectors. It had been one thing when it was just normal citizens, maybe looking around for someone to relate to and creatively interpreting some pictures and interviews and deciding that there was some sort of budding romance going on in the ranks. That was harmless.  
  
But when S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel were on the payroll, perpetuating the idea? That was sneaky and dirty and he didn’t like it.  
  
So he marched himself back into the office and expressed as much, and the same cool-faced lady had just raised an eyebrow at him. “I understand where you’re coming from, Captain Rogers. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do for you personally -- you’ll need to fill out some paperwork.”  
  
So he’d held out his hand, grim-faced, and she’d printed off the necessary documents and gestured for him to take a seat and fill them out.  
  
Halfway through, she glanced over and intoned, “If you’re uncomfortable, it’s all right. Just remember that nobody can make you be, you know, anything you don’t want to be.”  
  
Steve took his time finishing his sentence, digging into the paper with finality on the period, and looked up. His brow furrowed. “I don’t care about what people are saying. It’s the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D.... it’s insulting,” he said, huffing out a breath and searching for words.  
  
“Tell me about it.” She pursed her lips and shook her head. “The tabloid rumors are usually pretty bad, but being paired off with Iron Man? The All-American Hero and the Raunchiest American Playboy?”  
  
Steve blinked, balancing his clipboard on his knees. “It’s got nothing to do with who it is. I just don’t think S.H.I.E.L.D. ought to be meddling in personal lives like this.” His brows drew together, and he tapped his finger against the paperwork. “We put ourselves on the line all the time, professionally, and I don’t think it’s too much to ask to have our personal lives respected. You can’t control the public,” he added on a sigh. “But you don’t have to encourage them, either.”  
  
She seemed interested now, lacing her fingers and leaning over her desk slightly. “So, let me get this straight... you’re offended on principle?”  
  
“Yes,” Steve said, expression clearing.  
  
She blinked. “Don’t you think that’s a little ridiculous?”  
  
He was taken aback a moment, but his response was firm. “No.”  
  
“I mean, if you don’t actually have a problem with it, what’s... the problem?” She asked finally, tapping her thumbs together.  
  
Steve clicked his pen closed and focused intently on the young woman before him. She was genuinely curious, and had been warming to him the longer he’d sat there, so he was willing to bet that she wasn’t trying to get a rise out of him. (Or gossip. He didn’t think she was one of people who was actually manning those blogs. Or, hell, she could have been.) She didn’t back down from his look, either, which earned him points with her.  
  
He lifted one hand, gesturing expansively. “It’s like this. Maybe I don’t mind if some civilians we defend see Iron Man catch Captain America and swing him up bridal style and decide that means we’re whispering sweet nothings on the comm link. It’s harmless because it’s just speculation, and maybe those people are looking for... I don’t know. Acceptance. Some kind of role model.”  
  
It had honestly surprised Steve to see how many people had said they were waiting for Steve and Tony to just _come out_ and become positive role models for the gay rights movement. People who said they identified with them, people who were struggling, who thought that maybe if Captain America and Iron Man could fall in love it was all right if they were homosexual, because they were still manly and strong and their being gay was, well, incidental.  
  
Not that Steve was gay. He didn’t have problems with homosexuality because a person’s private life was their own, and it honestly wasn’t his business unless he made it that way. (He did, sometimes, when he was standing up for someone, but that was an entirely different situation.) But Captain America was a role model, period. And if people wanted to look to him for reassurance or hope or validation, that was fine. He just wanted to make sure they were doing it for the right reasons.  
  
And people’s emotions weren’t something to play with like that. S.H.I.E.L.D. taking advantage of a minority of the public’s speculation wasn’t doing anyone any favors.  
  
“But when S.H.I.E.L.D. gets involved, starts pushing this...” He shook his head. “There are better ways to get public support. Doing our job well, cleaning up after ourselves. Donating our time to worthy causes. Supporting civil rights and backing our support with votes, and speaking up honestly about the things we believe in. This is underhanded. And I don’t like underhanded.”  
  
After a few beats of silence, she half-laughed. “My God, you really are Captain America.”  
  
His earnest expression evaporated and he pulled a face, lips flat. “Yes, ma’am.”  
  
He signed off on the bottom of his paperwork and stood, sliding it across the desk to her. She gave him another brief look, and after flipping through the pages, said, “Everything looks to be in order, Captain. I’ll make sure this gets processed.”  
  
“Thank you.” He hesitated a moment, feeling like he’d missed some important part of this conversation. Like maybe there was something he should have said, but hadn’t, and it was eating at him.  
  
But he couldn’t think of what it was, so he just smiled and excused himself, and pulled out his phone to leave a message with Tony’s secretary. Because, well, now that he’d handled himself and the PR department, it was probably time to see if Tony knew about all this mess.  
  
He wasn’t sure whether it’d be worse if he did or if he didn’t, but he did know one thing, and that was that he was about to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

It was just shy of ten in the morning by the time Tony’s plane got in, which was an ungodly hour to have not eaten anything for the day by, but Steve figured that was his own fault. By the time he’d had a look at his own schedule laid flat next to Tony’s, he realized that he wouldn’t actually see the other man for close to a week (barring some sort of catastrophic event, and generally there wasn’t a lot of time for conversation before or after those anyway) and he wanted his teammate’s perspective on the situation. For a number of reasons, really.  
  
For one, he was Tony Stark. He’d had the media in his life for as long as he could remember, so he was better equipped to deal with this sort of thing than Steve was. Actually, the more he thought about it, Tony was remarkably well-adjusted given the media circus that his life had been. Steve knew that he felt overwhelmed when he realized just how much of a microscope his life had been put under since he’d become Captain America, and he’d been a grown man when people had first begun prying into his life, asking indiscreet questions and making wild suppositions without any regard for how he’d feel about it. To have grown up in that kind of environment, knowing that the public eye was not only watching but judging your every move? Even the things you did as a kid, when you were stupid and reckless and, hell, just _being_ a kid?  
  
Steve didn’t know if he’d have been able to stand up under that and still be the same person he was. No, he was sure he wouldn’t have, because he had a pretty low tolerance for meddling, especially when it was malicious, and his smart mouth would have gotten him into plenty of trouble. It would’ve been difficult to maintain his image as a wholesome all-American man if he was telling reporters where they could stick it and how much he expected them to enjoy it on a regular basis.  
  
Standing at baggage claim, waiting to snag Tony’s luggage before some over-eager fan (or worse) decided to go souvenir hunting, he wondered if he wouldn’t have ended up so different from Tony. Smart-ass? Yeah, he’d always been one, but people seemed to overlook that lately because he was Captain America and they’d all decided what kind of person he was, anyway. Reckless? He was reckless, it was just that there was a fine line between the kind of reckless that guided a nuclear bomb through a space portal and the kind of reckless that was parachuting into hostile territory to liberate your maybe-living-maybe-dead best friend, but either way his body was sure as hell coming home with you.  
  
Or was there?  
  
He rolled his eyes as the suitcase emblazoned _I AM IRON MAN_ came bumping along the carousel, and he plucked it off the conveyor line easily. One thing he would never do, however, was purchase merchandise in his own image. Even if Tony did it to be ironic, Steve felt there was a very fine line between ego and social commentary, and he knew exactly which side of the line it looked like Tony Stark fell on most of the time. (And to be honest, sometimes, he wasn’t so certain that appearances weren’t deceiving.) After a few moments, his phone chimed in his pocket, and he fished it out to check his text messages.  
  
 _Arrived. Where’s Happy? How much trouble am I in?_  
  
Steve sighed, but it was with a slight smile. He’d had the basic courtesy to text Tony and let him know that he’d be picking him up at the airport, and that he’d meet him in baggage, but he hadn’t really explained why. It seemed like an awkward conversation to have over text, and Steve preferred face-to-face interaction when he could have it.  
  
He’d just sent his reply when he got another text, this one making him snort. _Worth it._  
  
As far as he knew, Tony had been taking care of things to do with Stark Industries, but it was Tony Stark. He’d surely found time to entertain himself, and the more Steve thought about it, the more he was convinced that there’d been some sort of misbehavior going on that he really didn’t want to know about.  
  
Not because it would scandalize him or he’d lose respect for Tony, but simply because of plausible deniability. Director Fury couldn’t give him the side-eye and silently imply that he get his teammate-recently-turned-good-friend in line if he didn’t actually have any idea what he’d been doing. Steve had been busy too, after all, and he didn’t spend _all_ of his free time checking up on his fellow Avengers.  
  
Just most of it. And since he was absolutely certain that the Iron Man armor hadn’t been involved in any of Tony’s leisure time for the duration of his business trip, he’d classified the entire time away as Not His Business.  
  
(It was a new thing he was trying out, after he’d dislodged both of his feet from his mouth and reminded himself strongly that Tony wasn’t a Howling Commando and all the rules had changed when it came to Avengers and, no, these extraordinary people really couldn’t be judged as the sum of their actions. Because there was far more going on for each and every one of them than he’d initially anticipated. Steve had made a colossal ass of himself one time regarding Tony Stark, and he didn’t think it was going to be the last one, but no one could ever say he didn’t learn his lesson. So he left Tony’s private life well alone unless he absolutely had to, and that was working out pretty well for both of them.)  
  
He’d only made it halfway to arrivals when Tony came around a corner, flanked by a couple of weary businessmen and looking precisely like he did every other day of his life when he was Tony Stark, billionaire businessman and not Tony Stark, genius mechanic or Tony Stark, philanthropist superhero. His suit was flinty grey and his tie a baby blue, sunglasses perched on his nose despite him being indoors, left thumb gliding over his cell phone keys with absent precision as he craned his neck to look for Steve. It took him a moment, but only one, and then he flashed a lazy half-smile at Steve, angling the travel-sized Iron Man suitcase at him.  
  
Considering the world didn’t drop out of his universe and he didn’t feel a swoon coming on, Steve figured the general balance of the universe hadn’t been upset too much by his recent foray into the Internet. He smiled in return, lifting his free hand in a wave, cell phone tucked against his palm with his thumb.  
  
“Steve,” Tony greeted, clicking his heels together as he came to a stop. “Not that it’s not good to see you, but I do have to ask what marks the special occasion. Aliens? Doctor Doom? Obscure shortage of coffee in New York? Because even you will not be able to keep me from turning around and getting on another plane if there’s no coffee in the city.”  
  
They stopped a few feet from each other, Tony tilting his head up just slightly, and Steve tipping his chin down in the barest of inclinations.  
  
“There’s coffee,” Steve said, grinning when Tony’s shoulders relaxed a little. “And no one’s attacking New York, or anywhere close by, for that matter. C’mon, the car’s out in the lot.”  
  
“You actually parked in a lot.” Tony sounded nonplussed, but fell into step with Steve easily. “Sometimes, Steve, you still blow my mind. I’ll bet you have your parking ticket tucked into your wallet, don’t you?”  
  
Because it was fond teasing, Steve raised a brow and asked, mock-seriously, “Where else was I gonna put it?”  
  
Tony just shook his head. Steve was vaguely aware of someone lifting a cell phone and snapping a picture, and a week ago he would have just dismissed it, but there was a new track at the back of his mind wondering: Was this going to go on Tumblr? Would there be a caption about the “superboyfriends” at the airport?  
  
How exactly _did_ it look, Steve dressed in a tee shirt tucked into a pair of jeans, obviously on a leisure day, picking Tony up from a long business trip at the airport?  
  
He firmed his mouth, sliding his cell phone into his back pocket.  
  
“I eagerly anticipate the day your buns of steel actually crush your phone,” Tony remarked, secreting his own away in some hidden pocket. “No, seriously. I want to record your reaction and put it on YouTube.”  
  
“That’s the last thing we need,” he replied, just cryptically enough to make Tony raise his eyebrow over the top of his sunglasses.  
  
“All right, Cap, shoot.” Tony slid his sunglasses down with one finger, somehow managing to peer over them while still looking up at Steve. “I am not known for my patience. Stunning good looks and charm, yes. Patience, no.”  
  
Steve held the door open for Tony, who looked supremely unimpressed and added, “And revolving doors are not your enemy.”  
  
“I know that. I’d just like to have a private conversation with you.” He pursed his lips, thankful that when he was in plainclothes he wasn’t nearly as iconic as Tony was, and gestured toward the parking garage. “I got a good spot, so it’s not far to walk.”  
  
Tony flicked him a brief look before sighing. “All right, have it your way. Speaking of, I’m hungry. Lunch?”  
  
Steve’s shoulders relaxed instantly, and if his smile was more relieved than friendly, he didn’t care. “Lunch. I passed a real nice diner on my way here.”  
  
Despite Tony’s protests about the vehicle Steve had shown up in (“Standard-issue S.H.I.E.L.D. minivan! Why, Steve? _Why_?”) he settled in comfortably enough, his phone once again in his hands. He kept up a steady monologue while Steve navigated his way out of the parking garage, not seeming to mind that Steve barely acknowledged what he said with a grunt half the time, or that he was actually singing along to the radio the other half. By the time they managed to get out onto the highway (literally a half an hour, Jesus, Steve could see Tony’s argument for flying his private jet everywhere) he was relaxed enough to start paying attention to Tony’s play-by-play announcement of all the e-mails he’d ignored, which was probably a good thing.  
  
“-and then there’s the one from Agent Wilson, oh Agent Wilson, you’ve been trying so hard to get ahold of me. But Pepper already spoke to you, didn’t she, and you know, Steve, we’re decent friends now, but I’m not going to make a statement to the press that I don’t kiss you between missions because honestly, that’s fuel to the fire if I’ve ever heard it. Sorry if it damages your reputation, but welcome to my world. If you can’t stand up to a little mud-slinging you probably aren’t in the right business, and before you argue, of course it’s a business, everything’s a business. I think you might actually be team leader, mascot, and fan favorite all in one, which is unfair, but I’m gaining on you.”  
  
“Tony.”  
  
“Don’t get your all-American boxers in a twist. I’m sure you can still be America’s sweetheart even if people think you’re bumping uglies with me.” Tony glanced over, his smile only widening at the stern, serious look on Steve’s face.  
  
“I don’t care about all that,” Steve said, alternating between keeping his eyes on the road and feeling mildly ridiculous as he tried to be dignified and righteously annoyed behind the wheel of a minivan. “Though I don’t think ‘bumping uglies’ is the most eloquent way you could put that. We’ve got a real fan following, Tony.”  
  
Tony sighed, long and gusty. “Cap, let me let you in on a little secret. It doesn’t make you less of a man because people think you’re having a big gay tryst.”  
  
“I know that,” he huffed, but Tony cut him off.  
  
“And there are worse men you could be paired with. For god’s sake, people could think you and Barton are an item.”  
  
“Except they don’t,” Steve interjected, and felt honor-bound to add, “And there’s nothing wrong with Clint, but they don’t because, Tony. I’ve looked at the photographs and the interviews-”  
  
Tony leaned over and turned the music down a notch, but made up the difference with his incredulous tone. “You’re seriously offended by this. Look, I get it. Man on man, ew, weird-”  
  
“Are you homophobic?” Steve suddenly asked, completely derailed from his knee-jerk _I am not offended_ that had only managed to be half formed.  
  
“What?” It would have been hilarious that Tony’s voice rose to near-squawk levels had it been under any other circumstances. “God, no, love and peace, yeah, whatever, who cares. But aren’t _you_?”  
  
Steve pulled into a parking spot, pressure pulsing at the corner of his right temple. “Why in the world would you assume that?”  
  
They sat in silence a moment, Steve gripping the steering wheel just slightly too tight for comfort, Tony tapping his fingertips against his knee.  
  
“Well,” Tony said, measuring his words carefully. “You _are_ from the forties.”  
  
And there it was in one, the thing that irritated him faster and more effectively than anything else in the world. Steve let his hands slide away from the wheel, forcing the tension out of his shoulders because it wasn’t going to do him any good to get angry, no matter how justified he felt. Everyone, _everyone_ assumed that he was a caricature of the 1940‘s, a man who held every single value that the decade had been known for close to his heart and was offended and scandalized by anything that defied the societal norms of “his time.” And sure, Steve did have some core values that he felt shouldn’t be messed with; you respected women and damn it, that wasn’t sexist, and you went to Church and you believed in God, and you did a hard day’s work if you expected to be paid for it. Maybe he wouldn’t want his sister, if he had a sister, to be dressing the way young women sometimes did these days, but he sure wasn’t complaining about the view when a pair of long legs in a mini-skirt sashayed past him.  
  
The thing was, he wasn’t frozen in time. Not anymore. And even back then he hadn’t believed that women ought to be biddable little things with folded hands and easy smiles for any fella who winked at them, or that a man’s value was locked up in the color of his skin, or that he had any right to tell anybody who they ought to love. Maybe he wasn’t exactly comfortable with it, and maybe he didn’t want to see a couple of dames or a couple of guys locked in a tender embrace in front of him, but he’d defend their right to love whoever the hell they wanted until his dying breath. Because they were people, and they weren’t hurting anybody, and he was a Christian man, damn it, so judge not that ye be not judged.  
  
He’d come to expect it from most people. He’d told himself to be patient and understanding and kind, and correct assumptions about him as peacefully as he could, because it wasn’t as though there was a precedent for dealing with people like him. But of everyone, he really hadn’t expected it from Tony.  
  
He had time to wonder why it bothered him so much, why it felt like a little burn behind his breastbone, before Tony reached over and placed an awkward hand on his upper arm.  
  
“I’ve offended you. Contrary to popular belief, that’s not something I actually try to do most of the time.” He was smiling, that lopsided, haphazard smile that meant he was trying to not only be charming but was trying to be _sincere_ and charming. Steve had learned to categorize his smiles, mostly so that he knew when Tony needed a metaphorical punch to the balls versus a grudging acceptance of his makeshift apology. “And, lo and behold, you’re completely offended for exactly the one reason I didn’t expect. So let’s just backtrack and start over on this one, shall we?”  
  
Silence stretched between them for a few beats, and then Steve smiled very slightly. “Over lunch.”  
  
“Thank God in heaven,” Tony said sincerely, making Steve’s smile turn into a grin.


End file.
